


The Sound of Snow

by Whitaker C Sour (slowmobanana)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Addiction, Fake AH Crew, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24028105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slowmobanana/pseuds/Whitaker%20C%20Sour
Summary: Being stuck inside during a snow storm while struggling with addiction isn't easy.
Kudos: 9





	The Sound of Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, trigger warnings? Trigger warnings abound! Please read with caution!!  
> And also trying to do a thing called a Drabble a Day and I'mma try to post a drabble a day. That is all.

Winter was a beautiful and cruel season.

Snow littered from the sky, dusty and powdered and cocaine-like, suffocating everything under a thick sheet of sleet and ice. The sky had been dark for so long, Michael was convinced the world had stopped spinning.

When the storm subsided, Michael opened the window, a rush of bitter wind upon bright red cheeks and a bright red nose. He faltered, pushing himself away from the window before he fell out it. The snow swallowed all the sound and no living thing dared make prints of snow or frosted breath.

He snatched the whiskey off the counter, deliberated with a glass, and then threw it in the sink and drank straight from the bottle.

When alcohol stopped burning, usually that was a sign he’d had too much.

His phone rang.

Little dizzy notes fell around the room, bouncing like clumsy puppies clamouring after a ball. He looked at his phone, squinted at the name, then answered. The snow swallowed that silence, too.

“Hello?”

From the other side, a cheerfulness that had the same properties as a beer that had been poured wrong. “Michael boi!”

“Hey, Gavvy,” Michael said. “How you doin’?”

“‘Bout just good, I guess,” Gavin said back. “Been callin’ everyone and makin’ sure they’re alright.”

“Everything’s all fine here,” he lied.

“Good, good! Geoff says that the Cool Air Heist is still on for Monday, ‘nless it’s still like this.”

Michael nodded. “Sure, sure. Yep, sounds good.”

A beat, Michael took another drink from the bottle. “You good?” asked Gavin.

“Peachy,” said Michael. “Was… napping when you called.”

“Oh! Sorry ‘bout that, boi.” He strained, lingered, hesitated. “I-I’ll let you get back to sleep then.”

Michael nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Take care, Michael.”

“You, too.”

And then he hung up.

And the silence came back. And it was suffocating and harrowing and… He took another swig. He left the window open, he draped himself over the couch, taking up as much space as he wanted.

His eyes fell to the coffee table and the different kind of snow all boxed up on it. A pull. A little voice; _you won’t make it anyway_.

Michael rested his head on the armrest and shut his eyes, though he had little rest before the last four swallows of whiskey caught up to him and made the world spin in a way he couldn’t sleep. He needed to keep moving, or he’d throw up --- and he _hated_ throwing up.

He turned his attention to his phone. Scrolling. Blurring. Words, white, black text, pictures moving too quickly, can’t read, need more liquor, can’t have more liquor---

_It’s not like you can do it. You can’t actually do it. You won’t make it. So just do it._

He turned on his Xbox. He tried to play games. He settled for whatever was already in there, a third-person shooter with monsters and demons.

_It doesn’t matter. You still function anyway. You’ll go to work, you’ll be just fine._

He played music on his phone to drown out the noise, but the sound of snow and the sound of snow was creeping on the edges of his alcohol-mudded mind. His eyes flicked to the brick.

_It doesn’t matter if you do. You’ve failed before. You’ll fail again._

Irritation, frustration, a hopelessness that made his stomach twist and sink and threaten to throw all that whiskey back up. Desperation, he thought, wasn’t a good look. He dug his heel into the edge of the coffee table and pushed it back.

_You’ve already decided you’re going to do this. Just do it._

“Stop it.” He brought his hands to his head, he dug his fingertips into his skull, and he sighed. “That’s enough.”

He had “tools”, that’s what the medical professional called them. Like meditation. Medication. Call a friend. Call a helpline. Deep breaths, welcome distractions, put the dangerous things away where he couldn’t see them. It was useful. It was healthy. But there was one thing he didn’t have the guts to say, something he kept to himself because it made him feel weak. There was one thing that made this addiction no illness, that made his self-destruction all his own.

He wanted it.

He wanted to be addicted. He wanted to be high. He wanted to be drunk and self-destructive in the privacy of his own apartment. He wanted to break and be so broken, he couldn’t be put together again. He wanted this, _he wanted this_ , and that was why he’d always fail. After all, life was just a thing that happened. It was just a miracle he was born. Who had the right to tell him what to do with it?

Michael yanked the coffee table closer to him. He opened the box. He made three little lines. He pulled out rolling papers and he rolled them and he--- Stopped.

Stared.

Three white lines stared back.

The sound of snow made fuzzy edges out of feathers, made his entire body feel slow and cumbersome and aching. He was weak, he was frozen, he was crying. A long pause. Fish wire wrapped tight around his throat, pulling and threatening to either cut off his air or cut off his head.

He stood, gasping. There was something on his chest, something pulling his ribcage and his spine together, twisting everything in knots and churning his heart into pudding and when he cried out, it was strangled because it _burned_. “Don’t!” Michael grabbed at his thighs and dug his nails into them. “Don’t. Don’t do it.”

The empty apartment said nothing in return. The snow was as silent as ever.

 _I need a sign,_ he thought desperately. _If I’m not supposed to do this, then the universe will stop me._

And then he realised that was a stupid thought.

His character was still standing idly on the screen.

Very slowly, Michael sat back down on the couch again. Hesitation. Flakes of snow carried into the room on the back of frigid wind. Michael shivered but refused to shut the window.

 _Go ahead now,_ he thought.

He rolled the paper. He put it one end to his nose and the other to the line. Breathe in. Breath in. Breath in.

In minutes, a simple thought blossomed like a flower in spring; _Ah. See. That’s not so bad, now is it?_

Michael laid back against the couch. That frustration, that aching, the cumbersomeness of his limbs subsided.

Lightness. Brightness. Dizzying delightness. He put his head back and sighed deep, content, and giggly. The dark sky was brightened by invisible stars. The glow of the TV screen was warm on Michael’s skin. He felt open, he felt nothing, he felt euphoric, he felt nothing, he felt his cheeks and his chest flush, he felt the frosted wind upon his skin, and he cooled, and then he felt nothing.

 _Amazing,_ he thought. _This is why I do it. This is how you survive._

This was good. This was a good thing. He remembered why he did drugs now, he remembered how this all started.

It was torture to deny himself, but the release was overwhelmingly incredible. He must be a masochist, he thought, opening his arms so they could rest on the couch cushions.

And then the rest of his thoughts muddled into incoherent, pleasant nonsense. He reveled in a high, enchanted by the snow that came in through the window. _Charming,_ he thought. _It’s Christmas._

 _Leave the window open,_ came a voice, like dark pin needles behind his eyes. _you deserve to freeze._

Michael sunk into the couch and pulled his arms close to him and picked up the controller. He smiled to himself, stupid-happy. He had those “tools”. He could call a friend or a hotline or meditation or... --- right! He could distract himself. He could ride this out. He could play video games until he got tired and he could sleep. It would all be over soon enough.

Thank God he did cocaine.

**Author's Note:**

> Chat with me on Tumblr: whitakerwrites.tumblr.com/


End file.
